You stare at the ceiling and watch it bend. Like the very air in your room can’t be contained and is pressing against it. You watch cracks appear and the ceiling break open to a black, black sky and gleaming moon. And you rise. You float up to the ceiling, through the roof, and into the night.
That’s when I saw her again, La Bruja. The horrible angel from the river, from my childhood, who saved me.
I’d forgotten about her, after so many years. Forgotten how she’d come to me in the water and how when I told Mami and Papi of her, they said I’d just hit my head, that I was seeing things. Now here she was again, with long silver hair and glimmering eyes, suspended there, waiting for me. I looked back toward the earth, toward my house that from there looked small and insignificant. And for a moment, I saw us all. Mami on the couch, curled up so small. Me on that bed, under Rey.
The bruja sunk down to my house, pulling me with her like a magnet. I felt my flesh scraping the rusty edges of the roof of our house. And then I sunk through the ceiling and back onto my bed. Back under Rey.
But then he rose off me, stood next to the bed as if in a trance. And there she appeared behind him. I watched as she grazed his arm. I watched as it began to tremble. She held a finger to her lips and circled him, studied him, ran her long thin fingers across his back and shoulders. She leaned toward his ear, whispered something that caused him to stumble again, and then she came around the front and leaned down to his stomach. She kissed his belly button with wrinkly lips that a moment later clasped on to him like a leech.
I watched as his knees went weak, a draining look came over his face. I watched as he stumbled out the window, telling me he’d find me again.
I got up slowly and closed it, watched him as he stumbled into the darkness.
When I turned back around, the old woman was gone. I wondered if she would chase after him in the black night. I wondered if she’d made him go away forever, if he’d be dead by morning.
I hoped I would never see him again.
But he kept finding me.
* * *
~~~
Pequeña? I hear someone call my name, but I don’t want to be Pequeña anymore.
Pequeña?
My eyes flutter open to the dimness of early morning light. I’m on the bus. Pulga is next to me, whispering my name.
“What’s wrong?” I ask him.
“They know by now,” he says, looking out the window as if he can see our mothers there, desperate and heartbroken, angry and scared.
“They have each other,” I whisper. “And they’re strong. They can take care of themselves.” I swallow emotions threatening to overcome me as I think of Mami. Of her waking, the baby in her arms as she goes to the couch to wake me. As she stares in horror at the things I’ve left for her there.
The gold earrings I’ve worn since I was a little girl. The long ponytail of hair I left for her to sell. And the note with the last words Pequeña will ever write, explaining that I’m gone.
I will shed the girl I was, the girl who lived there, until I am someone new.
Pulga sighs. “Do you think . . .”
“Don’t,” I say. “We can’t do this. We made the decision and now we just have to keep going.”
“They’d forgive us,” Chico says, a hopeful look on his face when he sees Pulga second-guessing. “We can still go back.”
A conflicted look crosses Pulga’s face.
I shake my head. “No,” I say. “We can’t go back. Not ever.”
Pulga looks at me and nods. His dark brown eyes are scared but trusting, and for a moment, I remember us small. When we used to play together while Mami and Tía Consuelo had coffee and whispered and laughed together on the patio and watched us chase lizards and iguanas in the middle of the day.
“Don’t worry,” I say.
He gives me a weak smile and we fall silent. There’s nothing more to say. So I close my eyes as the bus rocks back and forth, dips and swerves. I close my eyes and open them again, never sure if I’ve fallen asleep. Over and over this happens as I picture us getting farther and farther away from Barrios, from Rey, from the pieces of me in my mother’s arms and on the couch that I leave behind.
From the future that would have been if we didn’t leave.
Pulga
Six hours after leaving Barrios, the bus hisses and brakes into Guatemala City Litegua station.
I breathe a quick prayer of thanks, and hope God hasn’t forgotten me.
Chico, Pequeña, and I stumble out of the bus, groggy from the ride, and into the bright midmorning of Guatemala City.
“Where do we go now?” Pequeña asks.
“Another bus, to Tecún Umán. The station for that one is a couple blocks from here.” I show her the map I printed from school, hoping it’s still accurate.
“I thought Guatemala City had palace-sized buildings,” Chico says, looking at graffiti and run-down storefronts as we head to the other station.
“It does. I remember from when I used to come with Mamá to try to get visas to visit my father’s family in the United States,” I tell him. “Just must not be this part.” Most of it looks like Barrios.
The station is up ahead and when we go in, we’re immediately greeted and tempted by the smell of food. My stomach lets out a groan. But we focus first on finding the schedule and heading out on the next bus to Tecún Umán.
“It leaves in an hour. That’ll get us there around six,” I tell them. “Then we cross the Suchiate River and make it to Mexico by six or seven. And there will still be sunlight.”
“But not for long,” Pequeña says. “What do we do after that? Where do we stay tonight?”
“I think we should be able to catch a taxi or minibus right on the other side, to take us to a shelter in Tapachula. We’ll sleep there tonight.” I try to sound confident but now that we’re here, now that this is actually happening, I’m not too sure of anything.
Chico glances between the two of us, a nervous look on his face. “I know we have to do this, but I just don’t know . . . if I can.”
“You can,” I say, grabbing him by the shoulders, trying to convince him, trying to convince both of us.
“Listen to me, Chiquito,” Pequeña says, turning him toward her. “We can never go back. Our mothers know. Everyone knows. Rey knows,” she says.
At the mention of Rey’s name, I look at Pequeña, wondering if Chico’s blabbed about the things Rey made us do. But the look on his face lets me know he didn’t.
“How’d you know we’re running from him?” Chico asks her. He looks between the two of us.
Pequeña looks at us and shakes her head. “Never mind. All I’m saying is we can’t go back. I won’t.”
She’s right, of course. He’ll kill us if we go back. But Pequeña’s words hang ominously in the air, mixing with the smell of food from just moments ago. Now those words and the food and the smell of exhaust and diesel makes my stomach turn.
But we need to eat because who knows when our next meal will come.
“Let’s grab some food,” I say, breaking the silence between us and trying to forget about the danger we leave behind, the danger that lies ahead. I point to a stand where a woman stands fanning herself and waiting for customers.
We buy warm tortillas from her, and some chicharrones that look so good and crispy, a few bags of chips, three grape sodas, and two bags of candy Chico picks out. Soon enough, it’s time to get on the bus and we settle in for the six-hour trip. The bus pulls away and I unpack the food for us to share.
I bite down on a warm, salty piece of pork, wrapped in a piece of soft tortilla. It tastes so good that for a moment, everything feels okay. I look at Chico, who smiles at me with greasy lips and takes a gulp of his soda. Pequeña crunches on some plantain chips and for a moment, it almost feels like an adventure. For a moment, my stomach flutters wi
th anticipation, I think. But maybe it’s just fear.
For a moment, I think of it happening. Of us making it. And it seems so possible. The tires whir. We bounce over the occasional pothole. And with our stomachs full, we are lulled into a quiet tranquility.
Chico falls asleep. Pequeña stares out the window. I look at her, so different with her hair cut short like that. At a glance, she looks like a stranger. But then she’s Pequeña again, the Pequeña I’ve always known, the same outline of her face. The same slope of her nose and short eyelashes; the same look in her eyes that reminds me of that day on the patio when she told me we had to leave.
The same as they looked in the clinic the day she fell off the bus.
The same as they looked when Chico and I got to her house with bus tickets.
Something wants to break through in my thoughts, but she turns to me suddenly and her dark brown eyes search mine.
“We’ll make it, won’t we, Pulga?”
The grease from the chicharrones is thick on my tongue.
“Of course,” I tell her, searching for something I know is right there, but she looks away. I open my grape soda and take a long sip.
It fills my mouth and I remember being in the back room of Don Felicio’s store with Chico, of holding grape sodas in my hand as he was killed.
I swallow the food that’s bubbled up in my throat and force myself to finish the rest of the soda because we can’t afford to waste it. And I fall asleep, the artificial taste of grapes, of animal and death, in my mouth.
* * *
~~~
I wake to the same taste, now stale, as the bus pulls into the station and we get off. A sense of déjà vu comes over me as we walk into the thick heat of the day and into the streets of Tecún Umán, where people rush back and forth all around us.
“We need to head to el Río Suchiate,” I tell Chico and Pequeña.
An old man, frail and leathery, sits on a half wall made of rocks in a small park near the town square. He startles as we come closer to him, and stares at me carefully as I ask him for directions to the river. He points in the direction everyone seems to be going and coming and nods. “Sí, sí. El río,” he says as people walk and bike and zoom past us. Women with large baskets and people on bicycle rickshaws rush past, too. I look up at the sky, at the way the sun has dimmed in just a few minutes.
“Come on,” I urge Chico and Pequeña. “We want to cross the river and find a way to the shelter on the other side before dark.”
We head in the direction the old man pointed and I keep looking up at the sky, wondering how much time we have.
“What do you think they’re doing right now?” Chico says.
“Who?” I ask, walking faster. We need at least one hour. But I’m still not sure we’ll be able to cross the river as easily as everyone makes it seem. What if it takes longer?
“Our mothers,” Pequeña whispers.
I have to focus, but with Chico’s question, my mind is thrown back to Puerto Barrios—to Mamá on our red velvet couch, Tía next to her crying and holding Pequeña’s baby. Mamá is probably thinking of the promises I made her, all those promises, and wondering how I could break them.
Maybe Doña Agostina and the neighborhood women are there, too, comforting them. Maybe Doña Agostina is telling them about her vision. Or is she staying quiet, keeping our secret? A bicycle honks loudly at me and we move out of its way.
“You think they’ll come looking for us?” Chico asks, looking back in the direction of the bus station. As if Mamá and Tía might come running out of there, break through the crowd, and find us right at this very moment.
I shake my head. “I don’t know, Chico. We can’t think about that now. Let’s just focus on getting to the shelter, okay?”
“I just feel . . . terrible,” he says. “Your mamá will never forgive me.” He grabs on to the straps of his backpack, staring down at the ground. I don’t answer him. I just want him to be quiet, to stop reminding me of Mamá.
We follow the crowd toward an embankment farther up the way, where the rafts I’d heard so much about from the men at Don Felicio’s store come into view. Wooden planks attached to huge black tires, carrying people and packages back and forth across the water, guided by men, or boys.
We hurry to one of the guides, a guy who looks no older or bigger than me, and we ask him to take the three of us across. He tells us to climb on, and then begins to push away from the rocky shore with a long pole.
“You’re lucky,” the boy says as he slowly pushes us along past some empty rafts. “It’s not as busy now as this afternoon. Usually, I have at least twenty people on this thing. You guys aren’t visiting for the day . . .” he says, glancing up at the sky, then at our backpacks.
“Nah,” Chico answers. “We’re heading to La Bestia.” He says this loudly, too loudly. And then takes a deep breath, like he has to steady himself. Or like saying it aloud is the only way he can go through with it. Pequeña glances over at me and I make a quick note to tell Chico not to go around blurting our plans to anyone.
“¿La Bestia? Really? Wow . . .” he says as he pushes the long rod into the water. “My cousin tried getting to the States that way.” He shakes his head. “Pero le fue muy mal. If I tell you how bad it went for him, you’d turn around right now.” He laughs but a brick forms in the pit of my stomach.
“You see?” Chico says, his voice full of worry again. “We should turn around.”
“Don’t tell us, then,” I say to the guy. “Because we’re going to make it.” I turn my eyes away from the shore on the other side for a moment and look at Chico. “We’re going to make it,” I tell him. He nods as a hot breeze blows. Mexico. We’re almost one step closer. All I have to do is stay focused on what’s ahead. Get from one moment to the next.
“Of course, of course, you are,” the guy says, pushing the pole into the water.
“Is he alive? Your cousin?” Chico asks.
The boy is quiet for a moment as he raises the long pole and gives another steady push. “Oh yeah, he’s alive,” he says. “He’s alive.”
I keep my eyes on the shore. I won’t look at him to see if he’s lying. Even if he is, it doesn’t matter.
“Listen,” he says. “They say when you’re running to get on, you need to put your leg closest to the train up first. That way you don’t get pulled under it. Because that thing is powerful, you know? If it doesn’t eat you alive, it takes your soul. That’s what I’ve heard anyway . . .”
The words of the guys outside Don Feli’s store echo in my memory. Man, it’s hellish. Like el diablo himself is sucking at your feet, trying to pull you down into that infierno. I look at Chico, so anxious I wish the guy would stop talking already.
As we approach the banks of Mexico, the quiet of the river is replaced with the loud sounds of commerce. “Here we are,” he says, and slowly guides us in.
“Thanks, man,” Chico says, and the guy holds out his hand and they slap each other five like old friends. “Hey, you seem to know enough about it. Why don’t you come with us? You can drive cars in the United States instead of rafts here.”
I know he’s joking, but I know a part of him isn’t.
The guy laughs. And for a moment, his eyes light up. He looks back at the river and shakes his head. “Nah, brother. Those dreams are not for me. But good luck. To all of you. Que Dios los guarde,” he says. We pay him and he salutes us like we’re soldiers as we get off.
A few people board his raft and we watch as he pushes away, floats back to the other side. Chico looks like he might be sick as he watches him go.
“Where are the taxis and minibuses?” Pequeña asks me.
“Probably down by the road,” I tell her, heading toward the streets of Ciudad Hidalgo. But as we walk down the dirt path, out onto the main road, I don’t see anything but a few people on motor scooters. “L
et’s keep walking,” I tell them. “I’m sure we’ll come across one soon.”
“Are you sure they drive by here?” Chico asks.
The uncertainty I felt before intensifies. I gathered as much information as I could, but now that those places that were once just dots on a map are real it’s hard to make sense of it all. I push down my worry, swallow the panic rising in my throat.
“Yeah, of course . . .” I say as I keep walking into the unknown.
A woman rides by on a bike and I call out to her, but she goes around and past me without a second glance.
“I’m pretty sure . . .” I tell him. I try not to think of how we must look wandering around, of who might already be targeting us.
“Are we going the right way?” Chico asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “We just need to find a taxi.”
“It’s getting late . . .” Chico says.
“It’s okay,” I tell him, but even I can hear the panic in my own voice. The sky is darkening and night is falling faster than I expected. An eerie silence begins to set in, just like it does back in Barrios, as everyone heads home. As doors are shut closed and wooden bars are set in place. We continue down a mostly empty road looking around for a bus, a taxi, someone who doesn’t rush past us when we call out to them. But there are no vehicles, and less and less people.
“This doesn’t feel right,” Chico whispers, crowding closer to me and Pequeña.
“Chico’s right. This isn’t safe, Pulga,” she whispers. “We can’t just walk around like this.”
“I know, I know,” I tell her. “I just . . . let’s just keep going this way.”
“But do you know where we’re going? Where we’re headed to?” Pequeña asks, an edge to her voice that heightens my fear and irritation.
“Just keep walking,” I tell them both, trying to wish a bus or taxi into existence. There are parts of this trip you can’t figure out. There are stretches of it you can’t plan for.
There are parts of it that you travel only on hope.
We Are Not from Here Page 11
